Unibrow
by September-Stray
Summary: Almost year after a devastating flood comes through Hillwood, A thirteen year Helga deals with the isolation and emptiness of this new environment. She spends most of her days aimlessly wandering the streets attempting to reconcile the past and find peace with her life.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1 Hillwood

Hillwood...almost a year ago, a flood came through this place. It took more than it left; a lot of people lost their lives. Emergency broadcasts warned the city to evacuate, but no one seemed worried. We didn't think it could happen; the water would never reach us. We were safe.  
When the water came, it had a heartbeat. The current had marrow in its bones. The flood had a mind of its own, a self-aware calculating intelligence without remorse. It took more than it left; a lot of people lost their lives.  
I could hear people on the roofs of their cars screaming, as the water quickly rose. The current swallowed them into the deepest place. I saw a teddy bear carried downstream before it went under. Cars were tossed around like bath toys in the violent brown water. A shape shifting entity, it grew nearly three stories high. It took more than it left; a lot of people lost their lives.  
When the rain finally stopped, those of us who survived had to wait. We waited on rooftops as the sun made its way through the grey sky. We spent our time hoping and waiting for rescue, as the temperature began to rise. The air became humid and sticky with the smell of sewage and death. Bloated bodies would appear in the water collecting clouds of black flies paying last respects. Some survivors would steal jewelry and other valuables from the dead. The dearly departed wouldn't miss their gold.  
We waited on the rooftops for rescue, thirsty and sticky. "Water water everywhere not a drop to drink." When the boats finally came, some had died from dehydration in our diseased surroundings. Warm wet garage, human waste, and death filled the air, as the parade of boats took us out of the city. We were safe.  
After us the, boats went back to collect the dead floating in the water. Bodies were delivered to the afterlife wrapped in black plastic. Housed in a high school gym, we waited for the city to drain. We waited until we could rebuild our homes and lives. Almost a year ago, a flood came through this place. It took more than it left; a lot of people lost their lives.

-Gerald Johanssen

When we all pulled together, at first, it meant something. It felt like it did, anyway. We turned our neighborhood into a colorful shrine in remembrance of all those who lost their lives in the flood. Fake flowers and crosses littered the sidewalks; candles were lit at night. People wrote names on the side of one building in black paint. We all came together for one another.  
This is the kind of positive outlook, in the face of tragedy, that Arnold would have loved to see. Proof that everything he held dear was true; that deep down, people were truly good. But he wasn't here. He hasn't been here for almost two years. I try to accept that Arnold needed to be with his parents; they were separated unfairly by unbelievable circumstances, for most of his life. As much as I love him and selfishly want to keep him to myself, I could never deny him what he truly wanted.  
The comradere that the neighborhood felt, slowly but surely disipated. After enough time goes by to put distance between a tragedy, people move on. The sense of community is lost; people don't need each other anymore and return to their apathetic ways. But the city is still haunted by what happened. Its inhabitants still have the spectre of the flood looming over them.  
Tragedy brings out the best and worst in us. We're still rebuilding. Hillwood resembles a desolate and derilic ghost town, more than its formal self. However, I must say the desolation mirrors my own soul. Deep down I wish Arnold would come home and turn everything back to the way it was. I imagine him knowing Spanish, by now. When I close my eyes and listen closely, I hear him say "te amo Helga." This is no way to live.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 Signs of Life

People tell me they see Helga Pataki everywhere, spending her time wandering the neighborhood. No one really knows why. They say she's downright evil. They say she's lost her mind. Some believe she is endlessly looking for Arnold like a restless spirit trying to pass on. Others say she lost her memory. What ever the reason, when the temperature starts rising and the streets are empty keep your eyes open. Because you just might see her. She already has what it takes to be a legend.

-Gerald Johanssen

The temperature is rising. I keep on a steady path of aimless wandering around the city, hoping to find any signs of life. Most of the kids I know arn't around.

They're still alive, of course. I just haven't seen anyone for awhile. Their absence makes this place feel more deserted. It already looks like a bomb went off and I'm the last of us left.

Phoebe and her parents decided to spend time with family in Kentucky for the summer. Fresh clean air and no reminder of the devastation to see on a daily basis, I can't argue against that. I just miss her.

Without my best friend, these days feel empty and endless.

Phoebe kept me sane enough to handle life. Without her, I don't know how much longer I can keep it together. All the other kids, I'm not sure where they are. The streets are dangerous and teaming with uncertain possibilities. Their parents must be keeping them home safe. I can't argue against that.

I just can't stay in my house all day.

I can't watch Miriam slowly kill herself with hard liquor in search of oblivion. Bob isn't home much these days; he's usually out of town for business. He avoids life by throwing himself into work. At least, he gets paid for it. Olga is living with us again, in a sense.

I close my eyes and see my beloved. Listening very carefully, I can hear him say "te amo Helga." This is no way to live.

Kicking a can, I slowly make my way to a fenced in bridge across the highway. The chain link canopy, warped at the top from kids using it as a jungle gym, droops down. Chipped paint and trash litter the walkway. As my kicked can finds its final resting place, I finally see a sign of life.

Towards the end of the bridge, a shirtless boy sits on the ground. His knees prop up both his arms that dangle down. In the left hand, a half-smoked cigarette burns and stains his fingers yellow. On his right forearm, fresh fever red scabs spell a carved in name.

RHONDA WELLINGTON LLOYD

"Curly?" I say with surprise.

Slowly, he looks up towards me silent and expressionless. His eyes are obscured by the sun's reflection across his glasses. "What are you doing out here? I haven't seen anyone for awhile now." He remains silent. "Come on you little freak, talk to me...criminey! Say something. I haven't seen anyone the whole summer. It's driving me crazy!" He remains silent and slightly looks away. That's when I finally see his eyes.

Curly has always been deranged as far back as I can remember, but he was apart of this world. Now looking into his eyes, I just see emptiness; he's a million miles away. Maybe he saw something the day the flood came through. Something that haunts his waking life every moment. I saw things that day that are best swept under the rug.

"Curly" I say softly, "are you okay?"

He remains silent and keeps his attention to the ground. I never know what to do in situations like this. This is more of Arnold's field of expertise. Uncomfortably, I sit next to Curly and awkwardly put my arm around him. It's a small gesture of kindness; I don't really know what to say. Like him, I remain silent.  
After searching for a while, I finally found a sign of life in the city. I wish Phoebe was here. I wish Arnold was here. I close my eyes and see my beloved. I tell him I wish I was kind like him, comforting and understanding. I hear him say "te amo Helga. If it's in me, it's in you." The temperature is rising. With the heat surrounding me, I'm dirty, sweaty, and sticky. Sitting on the ground, I whisper "you can only be who you are."

This is no way to live.


	3. Chapter 3

Unibrow Chapter 3 Olga Shrine

One of the greatest regrets in my life was being so self obsorbed that I neglected my baby sister, Helga. I should have been there for her instead of trying to be the center of attention. I should have listened to her instead of keeping up with my parents expectations. I can't change the past, but I hope someday we will become close. I hope we become real sisters.

-From the diary of Olga Pataki

The sun begins to set. Everything in the sky burns chemical fire orange and pink, a toxic mural; it's a beautiful sight. As much as I would like to avoid going back to my house, I can't be here after dark; it's not safe.

Standing up, I brush my clothes off and tell Curly to go home. He remains silent, but gets up from his spot. He looks at me for a moment before going off in the opposite direction.

"Poor twisted little freak."

I walk back over the bridge and begin the long trek home. I try to process my encounter with Curly, now that he's a mute with a thousand yard stare. We basically just sat together watching cars speed across the freeway for a few hours. It was boring to say the least, but it was nice to not be alone for once. Obviously, the kid is lost. There's really nothing I can do for him; we can't exactly talk about his problems together. Besides, that's Arnold's department.

"Arnold..."

"Arnold, the restless spirit that haunts my every waking moment. He plagues me dreams. Stealing my peace, dreams become hollow retreats for desires I cannot speak. My existence, a meaningless charade, parades itself upon obsession's altar. I give myself to you completely and forever."

My locket grows heavier with each word spoken, a shackle around my neck. I'm caught in a tangle of vines growing out of my beating heart, an entire circulatory system pulsing with blood. Daisies spring up from my entanglement; the little suns sway with the wind. They slowly mutate into little football shapes, with their petals turning into yellow tufts of hair. My obsession grows and grows. The little footballheads open their eyes and gaze adoringly at me, one hundred half lidded love sick eyes. In unison, they softly say "te amo Helga." This is no way to live.

When I suddenly snap back to reality, I find myself nearly home. Time flies when you have visual and auditory psychosomatic hallucinations on the sidewalk. Most people have to pay for such a thing.

"Oh criminey, I'm a basket case."

I walk up the stairs of my stoop and open the front door. "I'm home." No one answers. The living room is dark; Miriam is passed out drunk in a twisted position on the couch. Sighing at the sight, I walk into the kitchen. Bob is no where to be seen. I make a bowl of cereal and head upstairs to the bathroom.

Drawing the bathwater, to the perfect temperature and adding bubbles, is one of life's little pleasures that should never be taken for granted. I set my cereal bowl on the counter. As the tub slowly fills, I take off my clothes and throw them on the tile floor. Turning off the faucet, I gently slip into the warm water, cereal in tow. My muscles relax as they feel the soothing warmth. It's my little nightly ritual. Leaning back and balancing my dinner took some trial and error to perfect; these days, it's second nature.

After finishing off the cereal, I set the bowl on the bathroom floor and let myself submerge completely. Listening to the sounds underwater is strangely peaceful; it's like the water has a heartbeat that syncs to mine. I'm in a calm alien world away from the troubles above the surface. Slowly, my head breaches the surface of the water to my eyes. Looking around, my eyes going side to side, I can almost hear the sound of a storm beginning. The bubbles have almost disipated; so it's time to get out.

After drying off and getting dressed, I make my way down the hall towards Olga's room. She's been living with us for awhile now, in a sense. The smell of disinfectant and faint perfume lingers by her door; it intensifies as the door opens, engulfing my nostrils.

In the middle of the room, surrounded by trophies and awards of past accomplishments, lies what's left of my older sister. Hooked up to life support and laying in bed, a tangle of tubes grow out of her. The Olga Shrine.

My parents never told me exactly what happened to her; it's too painful of a subject for them. They told me it was a car accident; that's all they would say. I know there is more to the story,but we Patakis sweep everything under the rug. Somehow deep down, they believe Olga will get better and make a full recovery. All I know is my sister is in a vegetative state; there won't be a happy ending.

Olga's eyes are tapped shut to keep them from drying out; most of her teeth have fallen out. It hasn't even been a year, but she's steadily wasting away into a little skeleton. Her tendons shrinking cause her hands to resemble tiny withered claws. The steady breaths from the respirator keep her lungs fed with oxygen. "You hungry Olga?" She doesn't answer. I grab a bag of nutrient paste for the feeding tube; dinner is served. I haven't seen the caregiver who is supposed to do these things. I guess she had something more important to do tonight.

We have a caregiver for her because Big Bob and Miriam could never do all the things required to keep Olga alive, even if she is the golden child. As disturbing as it is, I don't mind her this way. Olga listens to me now; she really doesn't have a choice otherwise.

When she first came home, I used to stab her with a safety pin to see if she would wake up; I would ask her if she could feel it. After awhile, the practice got old so I decided to talk to her instead. I still feel bad about stabbing her all those times; I told her I was sorry.

I sit in the chair beside the bed while filling her in on my adventures of the day. People might think it's a waste of time or pointless to talk to a brain dead comatose person. I would counter their argument with the fact that people talk to plants; they say it makes the plant happy and grow better. It's the same philosophy with Olga. Somehow, I know she's happy. Because for the first time, we're bonding; we are close just like she always wanted.

This is no way to live.


	4. Chapter 4

**I want to thank all who left reviews. A special thanks to Polkahotness for being so supportive of my work. She's the reason I joined FF in the first place. Now as for the question about Rhonda, I'm sure she's alive and well. She's probably on vacation in Paris.**

Chapter 4 A Mother's Love

Spending as much time as I have with Helga, I've gotten to experience, firsthand, her dysfunctional family. I've witnessed the damage done by years of parental neglect. Her family doesn't really see her as a person of value. It's truly amazing that she has remained strong in the face of indifference.

-Phoebe Heyerdahl

After I finish telling Olga about everything that happened today, I get up from the chair to turn her over. It has to be to be done everything two hours and the caregiver doesn't seem to be around. If Olga isn't repositioned, she will develope bed sores.

She feels so light and fragile, as if I could snap her like a twig. Bones of glass that would splinter and shatter, it's a strange feeling. My sister the organic porcelain doll, I imagine her waking up waking up and saying, "baby sis, what are you doing picking up like this? You're such a silly." Her annoying syrupy sweet voice makes me shiver; I play my part and reply with snarkey sarcasm. "Nothing gets by you, Olga." I'm a complete head case. This is no way to live.

I hear the sound of picture frames being knocked off the wall and unsteady footsteps from downstairs. Miriam, in blackout mode, makes her sloppy way upstairs towards Olga's room. "Here we go," I sigh. The door suddenly bursts open, colliding with the wall. The room shakes and there is another gaping hole in the wall. Standing in the doorway, a trembling Miriam violently stumbles toward the little skeleton that is Olga.

On top of the hard liquor, she has been taking handfuls of baby blue Valiums and Lortabs; these pills comfort millions of depressed housewives all across the country. For Miriam, it's a religion and she's just been born again; she has been baptised. We're going down to the river to pray. What this equals is an unpredictable woman prone to blackouts with fits of deranged outbursts; she's speaking in tongues. Seeing Miriam act this way, with her jerking movements and psychotic rambling, is a little more than unsettling. Seeing her, go from a droopy drunk to a rabid animal clawing at the air, is quite a sight.

Running on preset instincts while the rest of her is possessed by an unseen entity, Miriam has no idea what she's doing. I should be terrified at the scene, but it has become an all too common sight these days. I let her go through the motions; it's never wise to intervene in situations like this.

Not even noticing my presence, Miriam stumbles into a kneel beside Olga's bed and begins to scream out a sob. "Olga honey, are you awake yet? Mommy's here sweety. Just wake up please." Miriam squeezes the little curled claw that is Olga's hand. The golden child doesn't wake up despite the pleading to do so. A mother's love is a blind faith with no sense of reality.

She lets out a blood curdling scream and begins to shake her comatose daughter violently. One last pitiful attempt to wake Olga, it doesn't work. At this point, I have to intervene; it won't be pleasant.

Moving around to the other side, I gently place my hands on Miriam's shoulders. I calmly say, "come on mom, let Olga rest. She'll wake up any day now. Just let her rest a little more." I try to tell her what she wants to hear, hoping to calm her down. I try to tell her everything will be okay and return to normal. A mother's love is a blind faith with no sense of reality.

For the first time today, Miriam notices me; my words seem to be calming her down. They got through. She turns around to face me and for a moment everything seems okay. But her expression of disgust and cold hatred shatter that illusion, as she glares at me. Her eyes burn into me and I feel a cold knot in the pit of my stomach. Her face contorts, creased with splintering wrinkles; she exposes a rabid yellow toothed snarl.

When I die, this image of Miriam will flash before my eyes. "You,"she growls in a low voice dripping with disdain. "This should be you. You should be in this bed not Olga. This is all your fault. You were a mistake; we never wanted you."

At this point, I'm in shock; the look on my face must be completely wide eyed, as I let Miriam's words sink in. I should be furious. I should slap her across the face and yell back. I should let her know about all the times she hurt me. But I remain calm and quiet, realizing she told me what I already knew deep down. My parents never loved me; it stung hearing that out loud and in the open. Miriam, free from all social restraints by liquor and pills, let it all out. Her subconscious, set free, told me the truth; it just made me feel numb. Tomorrow, she won't remember our mother/daughter moment. I'll never forget.

I grab ahold of her and forcefully get her up off the floor. The caregiver must have heard the comotion, because she came running into the room. Giving me a look like she's offering to assist with Miriam, I turn her down coldly. "Where the hell were you? Nevermind, I got her. You take care of Olga. It's your job, remember." The caregiver looks down as I scold her.

Struggling down the hall with Miriam, I finally reach my parents bedroom and get her in bed. With the covers pulled up, she calms down and even looks peaceful. "You need to sleep this off, okay." Her eyes close; she leans her face into the pillow, cuddling with it. "Okay Helga." She mumurs, in a sloppy sweet tone. Another second goes by and she passes right out. I grab another pillow to muffle my scream.

This is no way to live.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry about the delay. My house flooded last week, ironically.**

Chapter 5 Restless Thoughts

When my best friend, Arnold left to be with his parents in San Lorenzo, the neighborhood wasn't the same. We all felt a tremendous loss, myself included. No one took Arnold's absence harder than Pataki. It was difficult for me to come to terms with their relationship. It seemed too surreal; they were polar opposites in every way and constantly fought. Despite how unstable their relationship could be, I saw how much she cared for Arnold. After he left, Pataki became something of a ghost; we never saw much of her during that time. Even in school, she dialed her attitude down and kept a somewhat low profile. As unbelievable and pleasant as it was, I couldn't help but feel bad for her.

-Gerald Johanssen

I can't sleep; my mind won't stop with the carousel of bad memories spinning in disjointed circles. The memories project across the ceiling like super 8 home movies; the colors, saturated and grainy, are warped with time. Restless thoughts become restless spirits with no peace in the afterlife. Miriam's words cut me pretty deep; all my insecurities and negative thoughts spill out. The past will always come back to haunt you. It's always there to remind you of how foolish you were and always will be.

In the bed, my comforter is contorted and twisted from all the tossing and turning. The room feels stuffy and suffocating; I feel trapped. The wallpaper hasn't changed since the fourth grade, blue against yellow hearts; time has worn it away. Everything changes, but it stays the same in its own way. Tossing off the blankets, I head to the bathroom to splash cool water on my warm face.

Standing in front of the mirror, I face myself with all my flaws exposed; they have nowhere to hide. I trace my unibrow with a finger while staring at my reflection. I see my awkward, gangly body accentuated with a tiny pot belly. The pores on my nose are big; I have an over bite. I'm pale with big googly fish eyes shining like scales. I also have Big Bob's lazy ears. I'm not pretty in any sense of the word. I would never admit it to anyone, but it hurts being at the shallow end of the gene pool when it comes to appearance. My sister got all the beauty. Being ugly makes you feel like less of a person.

The insecurity about my appearance caused many conflicts in my relationship with Arnold. I was convinced that he would leave me for another girl, someone pretty and sweet natured on the outside. I thought someone, who was the opposite of me, would make him happier. Every time I saw Arnold talking to Lila or any other girl like her, I would confront him about it. I would lose my cool very quickly; hell hath no fury like my scorn. In no time, we would be at each others throats and I wanted blood. The yelling between us escalated back and forth; a hurricane of grievances, our fights were legendary. Eventually, the argument would end with tears and hurt feelings; we wouldn't speak to each other for a few days. Afterward, we would apologize to for what was said and make up; Ever the diplomat, Arnold usually was the first to try and make peace. All of our fights really took a toll on Arnold and I could tell. It made me feel like a horrible person. I hated putting him through all that because of my own insecurities; it wasn't right.

When Arnold told me about going away with his parents to San Lorenzo, we were in his room; it felt like my heart stopped. I fell into the darkest place; the sensation of falling crept into my insides. I just stared at the wall completely unresponsive. My eyes focused on the hills and valleys in the wallpaper. I was in another world. I was a million miles away. Eventually, the feeling of shock and vertigo subsided; my hurt and anger replaced them. I thought Arnold found a convenient and guilt free way to break up with me; I let him him know how I felt about it. I accused him of wanting to leave me and called him a coward. Possessed by grief, my fists began to punch the wall as I wailed like a pathetic toddler. Arnold grabbed ahold of me and wouldn't let go; he tried in vain to calm and console me.

At that point, I was inconsolable. I kept struggling and screaming, yelling every insult I could muster. After awhile, the whole thing had become an exercise in futility and I just gave up; all the fight had been drained from my soul. Arnold loosened his grip, but continued to hold me gently. I pathetically cried out, "I don't want you to go. I don't want to lose you. Please don't leave me." Arnold looked at me with those beautiful understanding green orbs and said, "Helga, you're not going to lose me. I just have to go. They're my parents and I want to be with them. You know I've wanted this my whole life. Helga, I care about you and I love you, but I have to do this." After he said that, I could only stare at him in disbelief. This whole thing had to be a bad dream, but I never woke up.

By the time Arnold's going away party took place, we hadn't really spoken to each other. I carried on with the silence by sitting on the stairs alone, while everyone else spent time with Arnold. Streamers and balloons decorated the boarding house; the colorful decorations mocked our gray scale feelings. All those in attendance seemed solemn, especially Arnold's grandparents. Phil never made any wise cracks like he usually did; the joking demeanor was gone. Gertie acted completely normal; she didn't have on some elaborate costume and her crazy antics were replaced with silence. Their grandson leaving brought bad memories of losing their son. They were afraid it would happen again. The whole scene was beyond depressing; I hated to see them like that.

As the hours went by, the number of guests dwindled down to Gerald, Phoebe, and myself. They were all sitting on the couch together talking quietly amongst themselves. I came in nervously and asked to speak with Arnold alone; they obliged me. Gerald and Phoebe said their final tearful goodbyes; they got up and left us alone to talk without and audience. It was uncomfortable and quiet at first, but I finally broke the silence between us. Pacing around the room, I apologized for being distant and for what I said; I told him I understood why he was leaving, even if it broke my selfish little heart.

After all the pacing and apologies, I anxiously waited for Arnold's response; my nervous energy could have consumed everything like fire. His straight emotionless face started to smile; he motioned for me to sit on the couch with him. Arnold held out his arms and I returned the embrace. My world took on a hazy pink hue of warm contentment as he kissed me; I swooned on the inside. The kiss was winter mint tingling down my spine. For that moment, everything was right. We stayed together on the couch for the entire night. I drifted off into peaceful sleep wrapped up in the arms of my beloved. For that moment, everything was right.

At five in the morning the next day, Arnold and his parents left for San Lorenzo; I wouldn't see him for a long time. At least I got to see my beloved off. Even with his parents and grandparents in attendance, I gave Arnold the longest and must passionate kiss I could muster. I sucked the air from his lungs. I wanted to inhale his soul, so he would always be with me. I wanted this moment to exist out of time, so it would be eternal. We were lost in the void of each other; it really felt like time stopped. Unfortunately, time continued on and I had to let him go. Arnold told me he loved me; he said he would write me. I stood in that spot with tears welling as the cab took my love away. Arnold watched me from the back window until the taxi turned the corner; he was gone.

Here in the present, I walk back to my room and get in bed. With the restless thoughts of the past spinning in my head, I drift into uneasy sleep. This is no way to live.


	6. Chapter 6

**I don't own Hey Arnold**

Chapter 6 Forgotten Gift

Although all the students I taught were special in his or her own way, Helga Pataki was the most gifted I've ever encountered. Getting to know her through her writing was one of the most rewarding experiences of my teaching career. She was a truly extraordinary individual. However, I was always concerned about her wellbeing; Helga felt her emotions quite strongly. There were instances where she seemed troubled by so much; no child, especially at that age, should have to feel the weight of the world on their shoulders. -Robert Simmons

Something wakes me up. Opening my eyes, I look at the digital clock; for some reason, I'm unable to read it. The numbers appear melted together; the glowing red digits morph into unrecognizable shapes. The sound of someone or something, knocking on the wall, echos in the hallway; its steady determination shows no sign of subsiding. The rhythmic taps burrow into my brain, taking away any chance of falling back asleep. Annoyed from being woken up, I begrudgingly get out of bed to investigate the disturbance.

The warmth from my blankets is replaced by the enveloping chill of frigid air. Walking towards the bedroom door, my limbs feel heavy. I move slowly ,almost floating, across the floor; it feels like walking through water. After what seemed like an eternity, I open the door bleary eyed and finally step into the hallway. My sense of distance is completely distorted; the hall appears longer than before, almost infinite. This shadowy corridor feels so strange, yet familiar.

The knocking sound echos again and continues to grow louder, as I trudge the winding hallway to find its source. Finally, I discover the sound is coming from Olga's room. Assuming it's Miriam in blackout mode again, I open the door and walk into the room to put a stop her incessant noise making activities. She needs to go back to bed; I don't need anymore grief tonight.

"Come on Miriam, lets..." I lose my voice from shock.

There on the floor and out of bed, Olga bumps her head into the wall repeatedly. She lays in a crumpled and twisted position with a few stray tubes still attached to her. It's difficult to comprehend the sight before me; Olga is awake and moving around. Nothing can prepare you for the moment your brain dead comatose sister comes back to life. Although I'm terrified, she must be just as scared and confused as me; Olga probably has no idea where she is. "Olga," I softly call her name. I reluctantly approach my sister and she stops banging her head into the wall. With a slightly trembling hand, I reach out to touch her. "Olga, it's me Helga...your sister." In a flash, she turns around and bites into my wrist; it happened so fast. Nothing can prepare you for the moment when your brain dead comatose sister comes back to life and sinks her teeth into you.

Screaming, I desperately try to shake her off; she viciously chews and tears into my flesh. Instinctively, my fist begins to pummel Olga's perfect face. The sounds of wet smacking repeat with each blow. White knuckles smash against flesh and bone, warm and wet with blood. Eventually, she releases my wrist after several punches; Olga lets out an inhuman screech and makes a retreat. With an insect like crab walk, she crawls and spins simultaneously under the bed; her tube tendrils follow close behind. Listening to my sister hiss under the bed, I examine the wound inflicted on my wrist; Olga bit through the artery. To my utter horror, instead of bleeding blood, brown flood water pours out and starts to fill the bedroom. The water is already knee deep and I begin to feel light headed. Falling back into flood, I hear the sound of Olga drowning; she coughs and gargles as her lungs fill with fluid. Suddenly, Arnold appears before me hovering close to the ceiling; he glows incandescently with white light. "When your sister is in trouble, you're supposed to do something. You know what to do." He tells me this repeatedly, as I begin to drown.

I violently wake up sweating through the sheets; my breathing is laboured. "It was just a dream, just a crazy dream." Someone knocks on my door, startling me even more. "Helga sweetie are you okay? I thought I heard you screaming." In no mood for Miriam playing concerned mother, I snap back harshly. "I'm fine Miriam, just peachy." There is moment of silence outside the door. "Oh...ok Helga," she replies in a defeated and disengaged voice and walks away.

I lay back down, while last night's nightmare runs through my head. It was so vivid and terrifying. I rub my wrist where Olga had bitten into it; I don't know if I can face her today. Through out my life, surreal dreams have plagued my sleep. Arnold always manifests as my spirit guide, my subconscious trying to tell me something. Unfortunately, I have no idea what he was trying to tell me last night; I only feel closer to losing my mind, at this point.

Looking at the digital clock, it's one in the afternoon; I must have been exuasted to sleep this late. I get up from my bed to take a shower. In the bathroom, the cereal bowl from last night rests undisturbed on the cold tile floor. My hand turns the faucet on and I wait for warm water. Blue light filters through a single window; its dull calm illumination is enough for me. Steam starts to fill the air and I remove my soaked clothing. Stepping into the shower, I wash off all the sweat. The warm water soothes me momentarily; it allows my mind to wander away from unpleasant thoughts. The smell of vanilla and lavender soap sweetens the air as the water washes it away. After I'm clean, I turn the faucet off and step out; the cold tile floor brings me back to reality. Grabbing a towl, I have to face the emptiness of routine. With the mirror fogged, at least I don't have to face my reflection.

After brushing my teeth and applying deoderant, I put on an oversized t-shirt and go downstairs with the cereal bowl in tow. An intoxicated Miriam sits on the couch in the living room; she appears to be several drinks in already. The living room is completely filthy; trash and empty glasses litter the coffee table. Roaches scurry across the floor; colorful stains decorate the carpet. In the kitchen, the sink is over crowded with dirty dishes. The floor feels sticky against my bare feet, as I set my bowl on the counter and scrounge for something to eat. I find some kind of energy bar; it will have to do for now. I eat it quickly while going back upstairs.

I look under my bed and grab a big shoebox exposing it to the light of day. Inside it contains the letters and little things Arnold gave to me. Little mementos of our time together reside within, ticket stubs and pressed flowers. My heart aches while looking through all the letters he sent from San Lorenzo; I never mailed one reply to him, despite writing them. All the letters I wrote to Arnold are kept neatly in a binder. Any attempt to mail one of them always resulted in me cowardly backing out at the last moment. By now, he probably moved on; I'm no longer a part of his life anymore. Out of sight out of mind. This is no way to live.

Setting the letters aside and continuing to look through the memory box, my eyes come across something forgotten. Buried beneath all our shared memories is the mixtape Arnold made for me; he had given it to me in the fifth grade. I never listened to it. No time like the present, as they say. Taking Arnold's gift to my little boombox, my fingers excitedly press play in anticipation. Tape hiss pours from the tiny speakers; my love's voice comes in clear, but soft and saturated in room tone. It's an aural photograph of particular place and time, gentle and subdued like an audio polaroid. In my mind, I can see him and his room. As if I'm there, I get lost in Arnold's voice; his tone is sweet and loving. "Hey Helga, I made this just for you. I love you." To him, at that moment, I was someone he treasured; all those feelings are etched into the recording. I never want it to end. I can't help myself from continuing to rewind the tape over and over, just to hear his message. After fifteen times, I finally let the tape continue playing to hear the music. This is all I have left of my beloved, a box of trinkets from the past and a forgotten mixtape, I can never let go. This is no way to live.


	7. Chapter 7

**I don't own hey arnold**

Chapter 7 Bob Comes Home

Daddy was never a very patient person. He expected so much from our family; the Pataki name had to be synonymous with success. To daddy, Helga never lived up to his high expectations. Helga's disinterest, in following in my footsteps, caused him to give up her. He never felt a reason to bond with his youngest daughter if she wasn't bringing glory to the Pataki name. I witnessed this every time I came home. Looking back, I wish I would have had the courage to speak out against his mistreatment and neglect of Helga. I was simply trying my best to keep peace in the household, naively thinking it would make my sister's environment better; I was too afraid to upset my parents. I realize now that I'm just as responsible as my parents for the neglect of Helga. Allowing it to continue, I was an enabler.

-From the diary of Olga Pataki

I'm in my own world, lost in the sepia toned music Arnold assembled carefully for me. The sound's dusty amber color filters through the air; crackling haunted voices sing of Depression Era despair. My mind swims in honey. The moans of regret and lost love mirror my emotional dependency for Arnold. I've never heard music like this before; it speaks to me in ways I never imagined songs could. He loves old music; jazz owns his heart, but he chose the blues for me. This is his way of showing me a part of himself. This is something he knew I would love. I sink deeper and deeper. The whirlpool pulls me down closer to Arnold's world. I love how he knows me, that he could speak to me through music without being present. Telepathic bond.

Unfortunately, my momentary musical communion with Arnold is interrupted by a heated argument downstairs; the beeper king is home. As usual, Miriam bears the brunt of Big Bob's verbal abuse; she is the easiest target. Bob is probably upset by the condition of the living room. I stop the tape and immediately change into some clean clothes, denim shorts and an old raglan. Grabbing my bailout backpack, I open the bedroom door and walk into the hallway; the yelling grows louder in volume from this vantage point. This is no way to live.

I'm hoping to make a quick and unnoticed escape as Bob goes on another rampage about the current disarray of the house. "What is it you Miriam?! I go out and work to support you and the girl. Why can't I come home to a clean house?! How hard is that?! What do you even do all day, besides drink yourself into a COMA?!" That one careless word choice hit Miriam like a stone cold sober slap to the face; she breaks down into unintelligible sobs. Miriam could usually handle Bob's explosive temper and demeaning insults. She would always shrug them off with the help of a high blood alcohol content; she never let it bother her. But with her husband inadvertently mentioning Olga's current condition, the floodgates burst open; her calm apathetic nature is shattered. The beeper king, with all his infinite wisdom, looks confused at the scene unfolding before him. Not understanding what is happening, his features soften; the earlier anger becomes replaced by concern. A few seconds go by and Big Bob finally realizes the implications of what he said. His demeanor changes completely; it's one of those rare moments he feels actual remorse. It's one of those rare moments he shows tenderness and compassion towards his wife by embracing her. United as one, their shared grief brings them together.

This is my cue to make an unnoticed escape. Quietly sneaking down the stairs, I'm almost home free. But when I don't want them to notice me, they always do. They turn their heads toward my direction; all eyes are on me. I have disturbed their brief loving moment with my presence; in my parents eyes, I should have never been born. Bob lets go of Miriam and gives me a disapproving scowl. "Where do you think you're going little missy?" I return a scowl back and reply, "Out." Not accepting my answer, he argues. "No way, you're only ten. No daughter of mine is going out and walking the streets." Not knowing my age only adds fuel to the fire. "I'm thirteen Bob." "Whatever...look, you're still not going anywhere and that's final." "I can do what I want and I'm leaving now." That last remark causes him to shake with anger; the veins in his neck start pulsing. Our battle of wills becomes almost physical, an embodiment of stubborn uncompromising stares. In a serious yet calm voice, Bob says, "I'm going to give you to the count of three to get your little smart ass back upstairs. I support this family and you'll do as I say." We stand glaring at each other, neither of us backing down. "One." Our scowls and crossed armed stance mirror one another. "Two." Before he can get to three, I sprint quickly for the front door; the beeper king follows behind my trail with pounding footsteps.

I frantically open the door and make it outside before he can trap me in the house. Bob's booming voice reverberates through the block as he chases me down the sidewalk. Luckily, youth is on my side. Big Bob might be built like a tank, but he is completely out of shape; all that bone crushing strength won't help him out in the open. After a few more blocks, he finally gives up the pursuit and yells for me not to come back. A few more words about me being worthless echo into the air as the beeper king goes back home. I keep running until my lungs feel raw. I keep running until all my muscles burn.

Out of breath, I decide to stop and find myself at p.s 118. The past will always follow you. Panting, I take the time to catch my breath while observing my old elementary stomping ground. If nostalgia is a sickness, I'm terminally ill. I walk across the blacktop as the scorching summer sun cooks it; black tar oozes from beneath the earth. Bending down and pulling some of it from the ground, I roll the warm gooey substance between my fingers; the texture and smell bring back familiar childhood memories. Life wasn't necessarily better then, but memories tend to take on a fuzzy glow as time passes; they appear brighter in comparison to the present. If nostalgia is a sickness, I'm terminally ill. Walking towards the swings, I sit down on one and let my feet push me back and forth. Flicking away the little ball of black tar, both of my hands wrap around the rust colored chains; their metallic scent fills my nose. I begin to swing as high as gravity will allow. The chains keep me from leaving the earth; their clinking sound rings out every time my body is pulled back down. Tilting back, my blonde hair catches the breeze; for the moment, I am free. I finally let go and fly out of the swing; gravity always wins as I land on my feet.

Heat waves rise over every horizon in sight. I let my subconscious guide me through the neighborhood; it will always lead me somewhere. With Big Bob back home, I need to find a place to stay for a night or two. There is no way around it; I can't deal with him living under the same roof. At least he never stays for long; the beeper king can't handle the pathetic state of our family. There won't be any more concertos played by Olga, unless the beeping from her life support counts. Miriam will continue to drink herself closer to the grave everyday. The family is in complete disarray. The temperature keeps rising. A heat wave wraps the city in a blanket of one hundred and seven degree weather. Sweat pours from my skin and soaks my clothes; the taste of salt is on my tongue. It hasn't been this hot since I was nine years old. I remember a whole mob of kids, myself included, attempting to flip an ice cream truck because of the heat. It can make people crazy; in my mind, I imagine people huddling around an air conditioner hoping for relief. I've always loved the smell of window air conditioners. I used to put my face up to the one at my grandmother's house in the summer; it had a snowflake logo on the panel that promised comfort.

Hillwood remains stuck in a dry season; no rain has fallen the entire summer so far. As I walk, the soles of my shoes stick to the pavement. The sun continues its assault upon everything in sight; its blinding yellow light bleaches my vision. A block of abandoned buildings wear the scars of water damage; their windows stay dark and empty. Plywood boards covered in elaborate graffiti block the doorways. Not a single soul can be seen on the sidewalk; weeds and dead brown grass sprout from the cracks. On this path, I walk alone. Bent and dented street signs decorate the cornors; they seem to lead to nowhere.

A few more blocks down, I come to the community pool; it's packed with people. They all had the same idea but, no one seems satisfied as I watch them. My hands cling to the chain link barrier between us. Their faces, greased with sunscreen, contain no joy. They all quietly suffer in swimming pool purgatory; their souls, waiting in limbo, crave an afterlife of cool water. I move on leaving them all behind. Before long, I find myself on Vine street; the boarding house comes into view and I feel like I'm finally home. All my wandering leads to the same place. No matter how far I stray, I always come back.

Phil had the place renovated, after the flood, with some insurance money. The building looks slightly more weathered than before, but to me it's a symbol of hope in this desolate neighborhood. I immediately start climbing up the fire escape; old habits die hard. My heart feels heavy as my hands grip the rough rusted metal leading to the roof. If nostalgia is a sickness, I'm terminally ill. The view from the roof remains incredible, even now; the entire expanse of the city can be seen from here. It almost stretches into infinity like the ocean. The poetry flows naturally from my lips. "I stand upon the roof's concrete shore belittled by the expanse of creation. My eyes follow the horizon into the great void of infinity. I stand here alone. I stand in great anticipation for your eventual return. In that way, time is cruel. When time is meaningless, eternity begins and I turn to stone. I face time alone."

My soliloquy is interrupted by the sound of someone opening Arnold's skylight window. Panic takes over my body as I freeze in place. Phil comes into my peripheral vision and I relax enough to get angry. Turning to face him, he has a knowing look in his eyes; Phil must have heard my rambling on the rooftop. "What the hell do you think you're doing sneaking up on my like that you creep?!" With an almost toothless grin, he smiles. "Well if it isn't Arnold's cranky little girlfriend with the pink bow and the one eyebrow." He has drop on me; I need to come up with an excuse fast. This is beyond embarrassing. Nervously, I say, "Oh heh...I was just uhh...well I was...checking yeah checking to see if the fire escape was safe. You can't be too careful these days. But it seems good...it will be safe...see I'm up here after all." Phil looks at me intently while scratching his chin. "You don't say," He replies with a knowing grin. "Don't get any ideas about me coming here because I miss Arnold or anything," I say defensively. He starts laughing pretty hard while slapping his knees. It's obvious that he knows why I am here. "Hey what's so funny bucko? Do I amuse you or something?" I cross my arms and scowl in defiance. Phil quiets down and says, "Oh to be young again."

Giving up the charade, I sit down on the ledge and sigh; my hands cover my face. Arnold's grandpa walks closer to me. "What's the matter. You having trouble with your family?" I stay quiet and Phil continues talking. "The shortman told me you have trouble at home. He was always worried about you and your family. Heck, knowing your dad, it doesn't surprise me. And with your sister's condition, it probably makes it worse." I remain silent. "I wish I could give you some advice, but I have no idea. You're more than welcome to stay here for awhile in Arnold's room; I know the shortman won't mind." Phil starts to walk back inside and I break the silence. "My life's in disarray, Phil." Sighing, he looks back in my direction and says, "who's isn't?"

This is no way to live.

 **The songs she was listening to were: "hard time killing floor blues" by skip james and "goodnight irene" by leadbelly**


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry for the delay. I was a little stuck on how to write this chapter. There is practically no dialog in this chapter or throughout the entire story to give off the feeling of isolation. Even around people, Helga is still alone. I would like to thank the new people who followed this story. It made me happy. And of course thanks to all who reviewed the other** chapters. **A special thanks to Polkahotness for keeping me going.**

Chapter 8 Hauntology

Hauntology is a term that was coined by the philosopher Jacque Derrida. It originated in his 1993 critical theory text, The Specters Of Marx. The term was used to describe the spirit of communism that still hung over Europe after the Berlin Wall fell. Although his theory is quite complex, it can be described in brief as: We can never escape our historical past; our ghosts will dwell with us until adulthood. In this regard, Hillwood remains under the looming specter that is the flood; the non-existing past manifests itself into the present. On a micro level, Helga becomes an example of the hauntological; she represents the city's inability to move on. As with her obsession with Arnold, the flood becomes an entity of supernatural quality; the two are related, as they represent the most important aspects of Helga's history. Their impact informs her present and thusly determines her future.

-Phoebe Heyerdahl

It feels good to be in a new environment away from the insanity of the Pataki house. A change of scenery does wonders for the soul. Laying on Arnold's bed, I stare at the night sky above; the colors mix black and blue with a slight glow from the street lights. A certain warmth inhabits this place; it feels like a real home. My belly is full of home cooked food instead of the processed garbage I usually eat. Tonight is one of the few times I've been happy since Arnold left.

Earlier at the dinner table, all those lovable eccentric boarders treated me like an actual person. They bombarded me with questions and concerns; despite the discomfort I felt from being interrogated, it was refreshing to experience something other than neglect for once. Nervously, I tried to give everyone answers without getting too personal; it was really difficult for me to open up about my current circumstances. Fortunately, Gertie noticed how uncomfortable I was becoming; she turned their attention onto the main course instead of my incredibly messed up life. Once dinner was served, all the boarders aggressively went for the food and I joined in. I assembled my plate quickly and observed the chaos. The sight of adults fighting over pieces of chicken and rolls was really amusing; it was quite a show. After everyone had a full plate, they constantly complained and aired their petty grievances across the table. Phil intervened each time as the irritated voice of reason; he tried to contain and curtail the boarder's aloof antics. I smiled the entire time quietly watching the scene unfolding before me. My eyes drank up every detail and interaction.

Despite the bickering and disagreements, these individuals genuinely care for one another. It's amazing that a group of complete strangers can make up a real family. I may be a Pataki by blood, but my heart is somewhere else.

After dinner, I spent some time with Gertie in the kitchen. Everything looked different and new. The yellowed lenolium floor that slowly curled with age was replaced. Smooth varnished wooden cabinets had taken the place of the splintering old ones; they still smelled new. This new and improved kitchen felt slightly wrong to me; I found myself missing the old one. Together, we washed dishes and talked about our lives. We both missed Arnold, but her spirit appeared lifted in my presence. Gertie told me that I was a fighter. She said that Arnold was lucky he had me in his life. Her words comforted me and silenced any lingering doubt about my worth. I hugged her tightly; we stayed that way for awhile. Everything else was left unspoken. Words were unnecessary.

Everyone in the boarding house sleeps soundly tonight; the hall stays empty and quiet besides the hum from the air vents. Arnold's room almost looks the same. It's impressive, considering this entire space was under water at one time. His grandparents fixed it up well for his eventual return. The comfort of my love's bed embraces my aching body; unfortunately, his amazing scent is absent from the pillow case. Some things can never be replicated or replaced. Some things are spells or incantations beyond the reach of understanding; they bring back ghosts from the past for a short moment. The former dwelling of my beloved takes on the quality of a mausoleum. It could be a memorial or shrine to him. Thoughts of Arnold never returning start to creep in my mind; they spin faster with each disoriented feedback loop. The peace I felt earlier slowly evaporates. It would impossible to carry on without him; my life would lose all meaning. It already feels like I died nearly a year ago. Maybe this is meant to be. A person can never escape fate. Pushing those thoughts out of my head, I try to focus on the here and now. My aching muscles beg for warm bathwater; I'm more than happy to oblige their wish for relief. Dragging myself downstairs to the bathroom, I turn the silver knob to draw a bath; my eyes watch the flowing water. Alway changing but the same, the tiny waves shape shift on the surface. It feels like I died nearly a year ago. Looking back on that day, I wonder how I survived in the first place.

When I woke up, no one was in the house. I found out later, Bob and Miriam had left at two in the morning after receiving a call about Olga's accident; they rushed to be by her side without telling me anything. Back then, Olga lived out of town; her hospitalization most likely saved their lives. They left me behind to fend for myself as usual. On that particular day, there wasn't any food in the kitchen; all the cereal had been eaten the night before. My rumbling stomach demanded breakfast. I called Phoebe to see if she wanted to meet me at a diner a few blocks away, but she never answered the phone. Starving and impatient, I decided to go on my own. From the window, the sky was gray and over cast; it looked like a storm might come through. So I grabbed an umbrella and took off down the street.

The sidewalks were crowded with people despite the looming storm clouds above; nothing seemed to indicate the horror that would eventually arrive. Everyone appeared normal and without the slightest concern; they just went on with life as usual. Passing a newsstand, a radio warned of a possible flash flood; the feeling of dread slithered into my guts. A flashback of being carried away by a current in fourth grade went through my mind. Unfortunately, the crowd's apathy towards this possible danger lured me into a false sense of security; my staving stomach defeated my self-preservation instinct. When I arrived at the diner, rain started pouring; the summer smell of water on hot concrete wafted through the neighborhood. To keep an eye on the storm, I found a seat facing the window. I ended up eating an entire stack of pancakes while glancing out the window every few seconds; the rain refused to let up as it continued to intensify. The feeling of dread from earlier crept back up as the water started seeping into the restaurant. I anxiously threw some money on the table and ran out. I knew I needed to get home fast. The storm was going to get much worse.

As soon as I set foot outside, a gust of wind sent my umbrella soaring up to the storming sky; my clothes were drenched. Growling in annoyance, I ran towards home with splashing footsteps. The water crept higher and higher with each unsteady step I made; it was almost knee deep. I began to panic on the inside as the storm picked up intensity. I heard the sound of screaming and rushing water in the distance; it kept getting closer. The flood engulfed everything in its path. There was no way to escape the violent waves as people and objects were swept away without mercy. I kept trying to get away safely, but it was hopeless. The current changed so quickly; it knocked me over and carried my body downstream along the sidewalk. I was a helpless rag doll in the water's grasp; I had never been so scared in my life. I screamed and desperately tried to keep my head above the surface as the flood rose to eight feet. My hands clawed at the side of buildings in futility. Something below sliced into my left leg; a cloud of red bloomed around me before disappearing in the brown water. Pain burned through my leg like blinding white light as I shook in agony. Shock set in as I became calm and disconnected from reality. I accepted my life would end. Everything slowed to a crawl; I felt so far away. My eyes caught sight of a small child being pulled under by the current; the terror etched on his face cried louder than his screams for help. Looking away, my thoughts drifted to Arnold. Remembering his messy golden locks, I followed rows of cornflowers to the calm emerald pools of his eyes. I stopped fighting for my life and just let go before everything went black.

Slowly the darkness faded into a white expanse with infinite horizons in every direction. My afterlife was empty and alone. I called out for anyone; only, the echo of my own voice replied. I started to cough and flood water poured from my mouth. Unable to breathe, I struggled against myself. Flailing on the ground, I heard voices calling out to me. Suddenly, I woke up and found myself surrounded by a group of people on a rooftop. I coughed and heaved out the water remaining in my lungs. These strangers had pulled me to safety and performed cpr. A woman cradled and rocked me back and forth in her arms; she said I was going to be okay. The rain continued to fall from the dark gray sky; the storm seemed to be subsiding. Nothing made sense. Disoriented and scared, I began to cry, but this woman only held me tighter. She sang in a soft soothing voice. "You'll have all the pretty little horses." I reverted to an inconsolable child in a supermarket separated from her mother. Instead of crying out for Arnold, the one person who actually cared about me, I cried out for Miriam. At that point, I called her mom. I begged for her to come and soothe me like a mother should. I knew it was hopeless, but trama drove me to a primal place. I just kept crying for her to come until exaustion and blood loss dragged me into uneasy unconsciousness.

When I woke up, the sun replaced the gray sky with a frying yellow color; the heat and moisture mixed to create a thick blanket of humidity. It stuck to everything in the surrounding atmosphere. The sun beat down on the rooftop steadily preparing to peel our skin like an orange. There was no escape. My body felt warm and sticky in stiff damp clothing. A t-shirt was wrapped around my leg as a makeshift bandage. Thirst consumed my entire being beyond any need. I attempted to get up, but failed each time in my weakened state. The woman who acted as my surrogate mother noticed my failed attempts and knelt beside me. Brushing the hair from my face, she brought a bottle of water. Wanting it more than anything, I drank greedily. She pulled the bottle away and said our group had to conserve what little clean water we had. No one had any idea how long we would be trapped here. I tried to understand despite my intense primal desire for water. There was nothing to do but wait for rescue. When nightfall came, the air cooled slightly; the temperature change brought shivering chills to my body. The wound on my leg throbbed with pain and continued to become worse. I felt feverish. I just curled up into a ball shaking through the night wishing the pain would stop. I thought of Arnold and wondered if he was thinking of me at that very moment. I grasped my locket tightly and dreamt of seeing my beloved again.

In the morning, my fever only got worse as delirium soon followed. My body became a radiator; sweat pooled all around me as I shivered uncontrollably. The agony of my infected wound hurt more than anything I had ever experienced. A cloud of buzzing flies circled above my head creating a black halo; it sounded like a metallic reverberating hum. I was sickly pale mess of matted hair and gooey watery eyes. My surrogate mother tried to break my fever with a cloth soaked in filthy flood water; it had little effect as the fever steadily rose. My blood was becoming poison. I was going to die in agonizing pain on a rooftop surrounded by strangers. The group of people stood staring down at my deteriorating condition. Between the glare of the sun, I thought I caught a glimpse of Miriam standing with the others. I reached out for her with a trembling hand and begged for her to hold me. She just ignored my cries with an emotionless face; it crushed what was left of my soul. The world became vivid primary colors flashing with seizure inducing speed. The fever cooked my brain into a hallucinatory loop as I overheated. I saw everything with eyes closed. Arnold placed gold coins across my eye lids and wispered sweet nothings. Eulogies from my beloved carried me into the water with black flies towing my remains. I was heading to the afterlife with incredible speed; the roar of their wings drowned out all sound. Arnold waited for me on the other side. I kept hearing the words "hold on."

I woke up in a white room lying in a bed. I realized I was in a hospital. Antibiotics, fluids, and morphine were being pumped into me intravenously from a tangle of tubes. My hallucinations turned out to be a rescue team with speedboats; they arrived in time to save me from the infection. I felt completely drained and slightly itchy from the morphine. A young nurse walked into the room to check on me. She told me I was safe and that I would make it. In a soft and empathetic tone, she asked for my name and other information. I answered her questions without making eye contact. The hospital tried to contact my parents without success. The possibility of them not surviving the flood was the elephant in the room. This nurse attempted to comfort and reassure me that everything would be fine; her colorful cartoon scrubs failed to lift the dark mood surrounding the room. Before leaving, she told me I was a very lucky young lady. For whatever reason those words caused me to erupt in hysterical laughter. I kept laughing until I broke down into uncontrollable tears; the nurse just stared unsure of what to do. Even if my parents were alive, I knew they would never come to see me. They left me in the house all alone with no food; it was like they planned for me to die in the flood. I just curled up into the fetal position and tried to disconnect from everything.

In the present, I trace the scar on my left thigh with a finger. The water in the tub is cool; I shiver a little as goosebumps dot my skin. Everything that happened to me during the flood feels distant. It's almost a bad dream with blurry details. It's impossible to forget and always waiting to appear before me like a spirit that won't rest. I try to move on, but the flood always follows relentlessly. It breathes down my neck like Brainy in the darkest cornors. A person can never escape fate. This is no way to live.


	9. Chapter 9

**I don't own hey arnold.**

 **Chapter 9. Wild Strawberries**

If there is truth, I see none of it in you. If there is love, I have given it all to you. I believed my own dreams over anything tangible in life. Under the fever of delusion, I lived for another. Why do fools fall in love? The answer to my question is selfish. I only wish to quench my insatiable thirst for affection. -Thaddeus Gammelthorpe

Her last fit of gurgling leaves ripples across the calm surface; they expand like sonar trying to catch movement within range. She lets the water fill her lungs and settles to the bottom in acceptance. There is finally peace, a sense of closure, that will allow us to let go and move on. My body just floats aimless with no destination. Arnold's apparition has departed this earthly realm, signifying all is well with the world. The ceiling looks like a sky filled with white stars; their light begins bleaching out all the darkness. It creates another void of empty space until everything vanishes into nothingness. I find it funny how infinite horizons of white feel far more lonely than a black abyss.

The unsettling serenity separates me from my senses briefly before a strong tug from below suddenly shatters the calm water; it pulls me down into its world. Underneath the water my eyes adjust to the murky green environment that shifts slowly with rays of streaming light. It's so cold here. Shivers shake like a slow steady motor chugging along at snail's pace in no hurry to leave. I begin to make out a distant figure gliding in weightlessness. Swimming in concentric circles, it gets closer and closer to me. She came back. Olga's spirit refuses to rest; her tortured movement shows no sign of subsiding. Slithering like an eel, she makes her way towards me. Now face to face with my sister, I can't stop trembling. Her eyes look like doll eyes, emtpy, glossy and lifeless as they bore into my soul. For a moment, Olga just smiles at me. "Take a deep breath baby sister," she coos telepathically in a sugary sweet voice that couldn't have sounded more sinister. My sister's medical tube tentacles ensnare me with stinging pain; they sear into my fleah, causing inflamed red wounds. My skin erupts raw and blistered, melting together only to be ripped apart again and again by the shear force of her embrace. Olga tortures and defigures me with her undying affection...unconditional love. I'm quickly pulled down to the murky depths below; everything turns black.

Little rectangles of light create a grid that spreads across the floor. The sun pours in from the skylight illumating the room; I let my eyes adjust to the brightness of a new day. The sound's of life bustle down below, as the boarders go through their daily motions. Voices and footsteps are muffled by the walls. I turn over on my side with lazy intentions to stay in Arnold's bed all day. I don't want to go out and walk the city streets until the sun begins to set. This can be a little vacation for me, a vacation from my stupid little messed up life.

A knock at the door brings me out of those thoughts and I turn my attention to Gertie coming in with a tray of breakfast. "Good morning, Eleanor; it's so wonderful to have you back. I hope the accommodations were up to par." I can't help but crack a smile. "Yeah, I slept well, thank you." Bringing the tray over to the bed she says, "Good, now eat up; we've got a depression to end and you need your strength." Rubbing my eyes, I tell her, "Yeah with FDR m.i.a. I have to keep this whole damn country together myself." My voice carries a hint of anger and bitter resentment; she could sense it. Placing her hand gently on my shoulder, Gertie gives me a clear look of concern and compassion. A look that speaks such volumes, it makes words seem meaningless by comparison. Then she speaks; her eyes seemingly peer into my soul. I notice the lines, carved by the years, etched into her face. The elaborate tapestry of wrinkles that represent all the struggles she overcame and the strength within. She is a fighter and here she is fighting for me. "I know you've had a rough go in this life dear, but you are strong. Stronger than you know. It isn't fair that you have face everything without Arnold by your side. He really should be here for you, but in the end we all have to face our demons alone. I believe in you, Helga. Don't be discouraged. I'll know you'll make it because you're a fighter." I immediately embrace Gertie in a hug and her arms tightly wrap around me in return. "Now eat up before your breakfast gets cold." "Ok," I reply, softly, choking back tears. After letting go, she gives a salute and does an about face, leaving the room with a purpose in her stride. Stretching and yawning, I sit up to eat the plate of bacon and eggs. Honestly, I could really get use to this. Miriam would never make breakfast in bed for me. She would never try to help or encourage me. I wish I could just live here. I really do.

After eating that amazing food, I set the tray aside and slump back down into bed. I let my mind drift out into space and block out the temporal world. I try to find inner peace within myself. All the comforts of my beloved's room are incense for the soul; they consume my mind in a beautiful bouquet of hazy smoke. It allows my spirit to rise beyond the pain of this petty existence. All the birds sing in you and their melody lifts me closer to calm jubilation. Then the sound of tapping comes through and starts to crack through my focus, splintering slowly like glass. A scowl begins form on my face as the tapping grows louder. My concentration becomes even more shaky until it finally falters. Beyond irritated, I open my eyes to see someone through skylight banging on the glass. A smug look strangely decorates his face. A smug look I wouldn't mind rearranging with my fist. With his hand, he gestures for me to come up to roof. I growl in annoyance while climbing up the steps towards the opening. Once on the roof, I'm glaring at the little voyeuristic creep. Calm and collected, Curly appears completely unaffected by my corrosive gaze.

With a defiant stance, I let him know I'm unamused. "What the hell are you doing peeping at me you little perv?" Curly just shrugs, his eyes hidden behind a pair of red glasses; they give him an unreadable face. They give him a sense of cool composure that betrays the insanity lurking beneath the surface. Curly's strange jittery gestures are the only tell tell sign of his true nature. He remains silent as before. Annoyed and out of patience, I yell, "Well what do you want?!" And of course never being one for predictably, he surprises me by answering. "I stopped by your house this morning Helga, but you weren't home. So I thought you might be here and it looks like I was right." I'm a bit caught of guard by his answer. I don't understand why he would be looking for me. The both of us are not exactly friends. Waving my arms wildly in the air, I try to get in control of the situation. "Hold on...since when did you start speaking again? I thought you were a mute. And why were you looking for me, huh?" Pretending to be pensive, Curly rubs his chin as if deep in thought. After waiting a moment for dramatic effect, he answers me. "Hmm let's see...first, I could always speak. I just don't speak to most people; it's pointless most of the time. Secondly, I wanted to see if you would care to do something with me today. You know hang out?" I immediately scoff at the suggestion. "Pfft what makes you think I would want to hang out with a little psychopath like you?" Unfazed, Curly tries to persuade me otherwise. "Oh, come on Helga. You know you don't have to put up your walls with me. You need to get out and do something...to get out of your head so you won't dwell on the past. Trust me I know." Growling, I just explode from all the anger boiling my blood. He has no right to tell me how to live. "YOU think I don't know THAT! Criminy, my LIFE is a complete disaster right now! And after everything that's happened, I DON'T need some deranged lunatic to tell me what I already know!"

With clenched fists and teeth, my entire body shakes in fury. I try to stay in control. I try to keep from breaking down in tears or destroying Curly's face. He takes a few steps back to give me some space. On the rooftop, only the sound of distant traffic can be heard; the smell of exaust perfumes the air. "My mom died in the flood and my dad hasn't been the same. I ran away from home when the summer began. I've been living on the streets ever since. So I know how bad it can get. I just couldn't stand to see my dad like that. So I left." His unguarded honesty starts to calm me down, as I process what he just said. "The other day when you tried to comfort me, well it meant a lot, see. And I just want to do the same for you. So come on let's go. It will be an adventure." A few seconds go by as I decide what to do. I can't tell if my silence has Curly in anticipation or not; his expression still remains unreadable from behind his glasses. "Fine, Curly I'll go. Just let me get ready."

Before leaving the boarding house, I write a note for Arnold's grandparents to let them know I'm going out. There's no reason to have them worrying about my whereabouts. I climb up the steps towards the roof; Curly stands idle, gazing at the cityscape. I'm gripping the straps of my backpack with both hands as I stride up to him. He turns around to face me. "Ready to go?" Rolling my eyes, I reply "What do you think, bucko?" Curly just smirks and together we take the fire escape down to city streets.

We walk through the neighborhood with Curly leading the way. The streets are relatively empty at this time of day. A few people stroll aimlessly around; a slight glaze of perspiration decorates their faces. The hint of apathetic desperation appears to hang over them. I can relate. It seems almost impossible to feel content. I just watch them as they pass on by drifting in oblivious malaise. The heat is already thick in the air; it clings so close, attempting to smother everyone. The further we go, the decay of the city worsens. Destruction and refuse become more prevalent with each step; signs of life become almost nonexistent. We wander the ruins of a once great civilization.

Eventually, we end up on some derilic block with nothing but condemned buildings populating the landscape. Cury walks up the stoop of one particular abandoned brownstone and motions for me to follow. With one hand, he slides a graffiti covered plywood board out the way to make an entrance into the building. He gestures for me to go in first. This is going to be some adventure alright. I get down on my hands and knees to crawl through the small opening. The space is completely pitch black; it smells of warm musty wood. Curly crawls in and illuminates the foyer with a flahlight. The floor creaks and moans in agony under our feet once we stand up. "What are we doing here?" He turns the flashlight under his face as if telling a scary story. "Oh, this is one of my many properties," he says grinning like a demented Cheshire cat. "You mean to tell me you actually live in this dump? Are you crazy? Oh wait, yeah you are." Curly just laughs. "No I have a room upstairs. I keep the curb appeal low so no one will want to take up residence here." He definitely succeeded in that department. I give credit when credit is due. From the slight orange glow of the flashlight, I see how decrepit this place is. Part of the floor has collapsed; a gaping pit of broken floorboards drops into the basement. The walls appear almost gutted. Rusty nails and splintered wood lay dormant in anticipation, waiting to snag and tear bare skin. Grabbing my arm, Curly starts to pull me in one direction, but I slap his hand away. "Hey! Hands of the merchandise, pal." He turns around and attempts to reason with me. "Helga, I'm just trying to guide you safely. You don't know this place and its pitfalls. I'm trying to keep you from getting hurt." Irritated and a little reluctant, I hold my arm out. "Alright alright, lead the way."

Curly points out which places to avoid and any other hazards that wait patiently for any unsuspecting individuals. Honestly, I'm really surprised the city hasn't torn these buildings down. Mr. Potts would have a field day over here. After a few careful steps, we finally reach the third floor hallway; our treacherous journey ends at a door with padlocks. In rapid succession, Curly unlocks each one and opens the door; its clicking creak echos throughout the hall. Compared to the rest of this place, the room looks immaculate. The hardwood floor is intact; an old rug decorates the center of it. A single twin size mattress rests against the wall with a milk crate acting as a makeshift night stand. Taped on another wall, a picture of Rhonda Wellington Lloyd is surrounded by candles and flowers. Curly turns on an electric lantern making everything more visible with dull yellow light. That's when I notice a mural painted on the same wall as the princess shrine. Tangles of thorny vines with deep red strawberries cover the surface in overgrowth. "Was this already here?" I ask still looking at the painting. "No I painted it over the summer; I call it Wild Strawberries."

I find the mural to be quite beautiful despite my weakness to that particular fruit. "I'm allergic to strawberries." I say somewhat distant. Turning around, I see Curly sitting quietly on the bed; he appears deep in thought again. I imagine wobbling wheels and grinding gears turning counter clockwise in his strange mind, all on the verge of collapsing. A few more seconds pass and then he speaks. "Well, it kinda makes more sense. The metaphor is more apt now." As usual, the little freak doesn't make any sense. "What are you talking about?" My voice, coated in dismissive annoyance, doesn't seem to register with the lunatic in front of me. He just begins to explain his demented logic. "Well, how I see it, the vines represent obsession like an entanglement of your soul. Meanwhile, the strawberries represent the harvast of your love. It's just more fitting that you would be allergic to the one thing you want more than anything. It's that kind of sacrifice that makes love special or at least that's how I see it." I'm taken aback by his words. Despite how crazy that explanation sounds, it makes more sense than I would care to admit. Obsession and love are not logical; they are a sacrifice of reason and your very being itself. Curly may be crazy, but he is far more intelligent than I gave him credit for.

I return a focused gaze back on the mural until my vision begins to blur. I watch as the painting warps. Vines animate in quivering movements as if the wind blows through them. A rising sun casts its golden glow while Arnold stands quietly waiting in the distance. Making my way to him, thorny vines scrape and scratch against my legs. The tiny cuts almost tickle despite their itching sting. Face to face with my beloved, he smiles warmly while extending his hand towards me. The soft emerald hue of his eyes radiates gently with the breeze carrying the delicious scent of his hair. This beautiful moment suddenly becomes darkened by overcast feelings; I'm no longer enamored by his presence. Far too may doubts start to cloud my thoughts. "Why didn't you come back?" My voice comes out as a whisper. Arnold keeps his warm smile that seems only more hollow the longer I face him. The sky loses its golden glow and grows darker. I desperately yell at my love. "After everything that's happened, why didn't you come back?! You left everyone! You left your grandparents and your friends! You left ME! I needed you more than anything, but you didn't come back, WHY?!" Still smiling, Arnold says, "Te amo Helga." I don't believe him. His words are empty. "No, you don't love me. You would've come back if you did. You wouldn't have left me like this."

Two hands gently pull me from the brink and back to reality. The vast strawberry field returns to its former self as a mural in a dimly lit room. Curly doesn't say a word about my lapse in sanity, but seems to understand. My head feels dizzy from the overwhelmingly vivid hallucination. Disoriented, I remove my backpack and stumble over a plastic jack-o-lantern bucket; its contents spill haphazardly onto floor. Instead of Halloween candy, orange pill bottles scatter in every direction. I crouch down to examine the immense collection of drugs in front of me. Picking up the stray bottles one by one, I find: morphine sulfate, secobarbital, oxycodone, hydromorphone, dexedrine, alprazolam, and codiene. It's an entire rainbow of of uppers, downers, and painkillers all at my fingertips. And those are just the ones I happend to pick up.

Curly begins to gather up the pill bottles and places them back in the jack-o-lantern. "Where did you get all that stuff?" He sets the bucket aside and turns his attention to me. "I found all those pills in abandoned buildings across the city. When everyone was evacuated, they left all their drugs behind. I don't take them myself, but a lot of people do. I sell a few here and there to get by." My thoughts go straight to Miriam. Her possessed movements flash through my mind. I can feel her crazed energy as if she is right beside me. "Helga I know it's not a good thing sell these drugs. Ever since my mom died, my dad drinks. He can't or won't stop self-medicating. That's why I left. I'm not selling pills to profit off the misery of others. I'm just trying to survive out here." Silently, I walk away from him and sit down on the bed unsure of how to feel. I should be angry. I have seen all the damage that prescription drugs can cause first hand, but for some reason I don't blame him. Although I feel uneasy about this, I understand to an extent. If I were living on the streets, I might do the same. It's a world I am unfamiliar with; I don't really have the right to judge. I look at him and this time I see the anxious anticpation for my response on his face. "It's fine, Curly." He just nods in quiet acceptance.

The air feels thick with a solume weight. Our own private desperation fills the small space we inhabit. I try to let my mind go blank to no avail. Curly walks to the other side of the room and grabs a brown paper bag. I watch as he inhales deeply from it. With each inhale, his face becomes heavier and glows red. He just lays down and for a moment it appears he has found peace...blissful oblivion. I watch him in envy. I wish for the peace he seems to possess. With uncertain steps, I make my way towards him and sit down on the floor. I nervously take the brown bag from him; my hands tremble. The stench of rubber cement creeps into my nostrils; it almost smells like death. I think of Miriam. I think of Arnold. They represent conflicting ideaologies fighting for my will. They are the devil and Jesus vying for my eternal soul. I inhale deeply pushing those thoughts aside. Curly looks at me smiling and begins to sing in an eerie near whisper.

"In heaven everything is fine. In heaven everything is fine. In heaven everything is fine. You got your good things and I have mine. In heaven everything is fine."

This is no way to live.

 **The song Cury sings to Helga is from the movie Eraserhead.**


End file.
